


Utterly forsaken, I took the Devil for companion

by cataquilisme



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Behavior, Crying, Dark Will Graham, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, Faustian Bargain, First Kiss, Heavy Drinking, Homoeroticism, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Murder Husbands, Murder Wives, Oscar Wilde quotes, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Season/Series 03, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, References to Dante, Slow Burn, Someone Help Hannibal Lecter as well, Someone Help Will Graham, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Touch-Starved, Tragic Romance, Ultraviolence, Vulnerable Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, a lot of drinking, but they don't know how to love, gone girl&romeo and juliet vibes, hannigram season four, they both are in love with each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25694308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cataquilisme/pseuds/cataquilisme
Summary: The moral decay of Will’s humanity, which we can see around, is not a result of too-extensive spread of atheism.It is his becoming.
Relationships: (main relationship), (only on the side), Alana Bloom & Margot Verger, Clarice Starling/Everyone, Molly Graham & Will Graham, Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, she dies anyway:)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	1. Blood is a juice of rarest quality

**Author's Note:**

> This book was written by me in Polish and is a translation with a unique plot and dialogue additions. Eventually, there will be romance and mild sexual content, but these are not the main topics of the book. I tried to write my own literary vision of the possible fourth season, taking into account the course of relationships so far, so a lot will happen in the subtext and metaphors. Hope you like it!!!

Kill himself or Hannibal?

Will Graham had been fixing his eyes into a reflective glass for a few moments shrouded by minor anxiety and completely paradoxical, blissful sensation of being nonexistent. Although he remained silent, there was a cataclysm in his fragile mind; cannonade of senses a man did not quite understand. Will's exhausted and unconscious eyes did not even move for a tiny bit when Hannibal returned to the living room with an expensive, sanguineous bottle of red wine in his smooth and tactile hands. _A murderer's hands_.

“You're playing games with yourself in the dark of the moon,” said Hannibal with tongue-in-cheek as he wiped down two wine glasses on a side table.

Nevertheless, Will was interested neither in answering him nor reacting at his words at all. He remained in a poised pose, staring into a glass and craving a drink. He yearned to suffocate himself in the bittersweetness of alcoholic intoxicants, which might have relaxed his tensed body and offered him an utter state of ecstasy.

He betrayed the Federal Bureau of Investigation for the sake of one of the most dangerous criminals of human earth. He had abandoned his beloved wife, foster son and escaped with someone who did attempt to kill him, and there was a quite an outstanding possibility he could have a try again. And yet Will had been standing next to the older man in Hannibal's bluff-top house and was aware he didn't have a chance to save himself anymore. He had buried any common sense or rationality and listened to a loud voice of his profoundly broken heart instead; how foolish of him, egad, how _naive_.

Will found himself inclined to run all over Florence by following Hannibal's vague footsteps. Get on his knees beside the altar of Palermo Chapel, pray bitterly in devotion and tears to be not abandoned by his god again. Yet Hannibal could in vengeance slit his throat at most. Here, right here with a smirk on his sallow face.

“Wasn't surprising that I heard from the Great Red Dragon,” continued Hannibal, with a vague smile, inclining his lips to lower his voice. “Was it surprising when you heard from him?”

Will hesitated. Hannibal did not miss a thing.

“Yes, and no.”

“Do you intend to watch him kill me?” asked Hannibal with a quiet air of unconcern. Frankly, some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling although he was trying to prepare himself for the worst scenario.

“I intend to watch him change you”, answered Graham with a clear sense of dispassion in a hoarse voice.

The older man took that in with a sorrowful smile as he fingered the corkscrew, contemplating killing Will with it. Embittered by Will's constant rejections, he was gaining certitude that there was no hope for a better future to any of them. Moreover, if being miserable was meant for him, it should have been the right thing to kill Will and forget. Try to forget at least.

Sadly, Hannibal found himself unable to do that (why, why, _why_...?).

Instead, he used the tip to cut the seal on the wine bottle.

“My compassion for you is inconvenient, Will”, he frowned as he poured the wine into crystal glasses.

“Well, if you are partial to beef products, it is inconvenient to be compassionate toward a cow”, responded Will with a little mouse of discontent. Unaware how his bitterness was breaking the older man's heart.

Hannibal smiled with sorrow, a sharp pang of pain struck through him like a knife. He stared in amazement of how one, single man could lead him astray and make him weak until it was an uncomfortable experience.

“Save yourself, kill them all?”, asked Hannibal as he handled Will a glass.

“I do not know if I can save myself,” said Graham with concern as he looked in Lecter's frank hazel, dead eyes. The fear of drowning in those dark irises was unquestionable. They were pulling Will toward its owner with an attempt to absorb his vain in comparison to Hannibal's selfhood, leave him trembling and obedient. “And maybe that's just fine”.

An uncomfortable delusion absorbed Will that it wasn't him who had control in this situation. Except, of course, it wasn't like that at all. Hannibal was the one quite astonished by Graham's beauty; the air of a young, greek martyr. Such a grace was in him, purity and wickedness.

Lecter had been remaining silent for a while as he admired every part of Will's appearance intending to learn it by heart. Hannibal saw a severe, tough man, not a weak, notself-preserved lamb in distress. Graham did not need any consolation, and he deserved to stay in astonishing radiance with this intoxicated soul, pride, and assertiveness of his. Will didn't need him. Therefore Hannibal was trying to remember this vision of the ideal and accept it with reverence.

In the aftermath of those wistful perceptions, Hannibal found himself uninvolved in luring Will onto his dark side. The temptation was enthralling, but in comparison to Graham's temperament, it remained utterly lame as though it was a subtle fluid or exquisite perfume; carnal but yet, irrelevant. Awareness of the impossibility of those dreams had struck on him. Hannibal felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his face. The sense was harsh and disappointing; the inability of making the shattered teacup come together. He had splintered Will into tiny pieces, and it was somewhat understandable the man didn't wish to share his eternity with Hannibal. Only divine intervention could bring them back together, except both of them were standing in the opposition of any morality and something else akin to religious. Thus even God couldn't bring them salvation.

Therefore Hannibal didn't move closer to his companion. He was satisfied enough to take an observant part in their poetry of life. Neither did Hannibal feel a more profound desire to touch Botticelli's “Primavera” canvas; so many times a man had an opportunity to clinch his delicate hand on the Three Graces or the displayed shape of striking Mercury. Yet he felt contented by gazing at the picture from a safe distance in endless admiration, alone. It was Lecter's mind because, not physicality, that was put into intercourse with a similar ideal. And the same spirit has been looking at Will from a few steps now.

Hannibal with inconspicuous, smooth movement covered Will's body with his own, pausing centrally in the front of reflective glass. As he had a feeling they would be under fire at any moment, Lecter realised if he aspired to spare anyone's fragile life, it would be Will's one with its exception.

“No greater love hath a man than to lay down his life for a friend.” Hannibal smiled lightly, referring the words of the Gospel with a suitable pathos as if he had summed up the world in a phase.

Graham glanced at the wedding ring on his finger and sighed softly. He had spent three years building his family from scratch, wasted three years persuading himself how much he despised Hannibal. Rather than to visit him in the state for criminally insane, Will has chosen to suffocate in consuming his chest hurt for which a man couldn't find any cure.

“He's watching us right now,” muttered Will quietly.

Hannibal raised his glass of wine, eyes sparkling with something mischievous.

“I know”.

Will's vague mind was coveying one projection into another, making his prejudice against Hannibal only grow. As he had known so many people who offered Lecter their hearts (and their horrid ends), he had as many reasons not to become one of them himself. Abigail faced Hannibal on her way, got wrapped in his warm, protective arms to found a delusion of comfort, and when she ceased to be careful and entrusted her life to him, he cut her throat.

Alana delivered her selfhood to the man on a favourable occasion, unaware Lecter had slung the rope around her neck and gently directed her innocence, decency and morality that she owned once towards destruction. And then desperate tears had been running over her pale face when she sat in front of Will. She looked as if life had spilt out of her and left an empty crust. Alana felt contaminated, she said, poisoned. And it was true; she had absorbed Hannibal's wickedness, being blinded by him like a dope offering her a sense of remedy. Alana after that was never the same. Any morality had gone.

How was miss Du Maurier different? So radiant, smudges of sunlight did fall on her alabaster face once. She was well-balanced and firm. And then the same sense of contamination got to her. That bold woman became a shadow of herself, destroyed by the beast, reduced to Hannibal's comic and pathetic cargo of poisoned souls. Will was aware of that. He knew anyone who'd been touched by Hannibal's attention, in the aftermath was pushed toward destruction. His victims were losing themself in bitter tears. In madness between who they were and who they craved to be, between led everyday life and their pathological desires, faint words and frantic thoughts, a hazy soul and a revitalised body, a relative perception of good and evil. Everyone anointed by Hannibal faded away.

Will froze and blinked blearily as he did realise Hannibal got shot. The bullet hit Lecter in the abdomen and the next few moments, the bottle of red Cabernet Sauvignon shattered to crumble, and Hannibal fell to his knees in front of Graham's stern, impassive face.

Will leisurely took another sip of the drink, relishing the breakthrough sensation of staring at Lecter from above, in the form of some unusual hegemony. He could not deny that he wasn't fond of that sensation; Hannibal was at his mercy now, like a wounded and powerless, defeated bird.

Well, almost at Will's mercy. Most of the credit fell on the emerging shadow of a human, Francis Dolarhyde. He entered the property, wearing a knife at his belt, holding the tripod in one hand, and aiming the gun at Graham with the other side.

“Don't run. I'll catch you,” hissed Francis.

Will didn't bother to run. He sipped his wine with a self-conscious and satisfied air, a flush of decadent pleasure stealing into his cheek.

“Hello, Francis,” gasped Hannibal as he pressed the excessively blood-pumping wound in his upper abdomen.

“Hello, Dr Lecter,” said Francis with a rasping voice, kneeling in front of the wounded man.

“I'm so happy you chose life, Francis. Suicide is the enemy,” Hannibal remarked, pale in his appearance like never before. “You were seized by a fantasy life with the brilliance and freshness and immediacy of childhood. It took you a step beyond alone,” Lecter added, shifting his dubious eyes on Will, to see how the man just took another sip of wine, utterly unconcerned with his condition.

“I'm going to film your death, Dr Lecter,” Francis declared. “As dying, you meld with the strength of the Dragon.”

“It's a glorious and rather discomfiting idea.”

“Watching the film will be wonderful, but not as wonderful as the act itself.”

Will backed away from the camera and tripod, secretly reaching for the gun tucked into the small of his back.

Lecter looked at him with sudden concern as he saw Francis pulling out his small knife.

Dolarhyde slapped the blade mercilessly toward Graham's right cheekbone. A rusty red, thick blood began to run down the man's face, filling his dry, finely curbed, scarlet lips, dyeing his white shirt and neck. Drops of blood fell on Will's crisp, hazel hair as he instinctively grabbed Francis by the shoulders, trying to push him away with the insolent air of Roman legionnaire.

Hannibal narrowed his eyes, balancing between a small sting in his heart of sensation akin to empathy, and dissatisfaction about the cardinal lack of any aesthetics in stabbing someone against such a porcelain face astonishing with a beauty of old Greek marbles.

Francis threw Will through the broken window. He struggled to his knees in a self-preservation instinct, observing in terror as Francis was coming to him to attack again. Graham pulled out his gun, but Francis immediately disarmed him and tossed the weapon over the bluff. Will refused to give up and insolently pulled the knife from his cheek with a groan. Adrenaline effectively minimised his pain and using the momentary, fleeting breeze of passion Will pushed the blade forcefully into Dolarhyde's leg. Francis screamed in agony and frantically tore the weapon from his body. Stabbed Will somewhere near his collarbone next, then pulled the knife backwards, resting the man's ripped body entirely against it, intending to break his spine. _Perhaps he would snap it, after all_ , Will thought vaguely. Maybe it was just Graham's fate. Have a twisted back, someone knocking him over for the next investigation, scars all over his face, an inability to look in the mirror.

_Ma non c'è tempo da perdere, mio caro_ , he heard then and startled in surprise.

It wasn't death that brought Will salvation, but Hannibal. He had enough stamina to jump on Dolarhyde by surprise, causing him to release Will from the dread grip. Lecter's tactile hands tightened on Francis' neck with pure intend to kill him with his trademark, sudden twist. Nevertheless, Dolarhyde turned out to be abundantly strong. The Great Red Dragon threw Hannibal mercilessly to the cold ground.

Who believed in joy on earth but despised of any spiritual kindships with another human, coveted rather unambitious stillness and rest among than pure happiness. Any confused and miserable soul had the right to demand such comfort, even someone who has suffered as many as Francis Dolarhyde. Nonetheless, it was impossible to achieve these delight alone. Graham and his murder companion had accomplished joy. Rather than to lose the battle in solitude, they have allied and conquered The Dragon. They shattered the idyllic construct of William Blake's imitation on physical blades and granite rocks standing present in time. They shed his rusty red blood on the ground; knives tore apart Francis' heart, such a remarkably-lean organ: simple pump, merely a muscle, yet romanticised symbol of pining for the other half.

The Great Red Dragon fell on his knees as his breathing had stopped. He was defeated.

He was dead.

Will took Hannibal's firm hand as the man picked him up from the ground and held him tightly against his wounded body. Graham startled at a surprise as he could never understand why Hannibal was always so gentle with him, even while he was causing Will physical pain ( _especially_ ). For some reason, such suffering had a sweet savour of caress embrace. Hannibal pressed his torso against Will's chest as subtly as if he were afraid to cause his friend discomfort. By that blissful touch, they were healing themselves and offering care for their profound injuries. Although it should have been terrifying, it soothed Graham's torn soul. He yearned for more comfort, vaguely asking himself why Hannibal - a cruel murderer who tore men and women apart - from all people of the world was so tender with him.

As Will might have been a fragile, little thing, yet so irresistible to crush but to admire and worship only. God, why was Hannibal so comforting?

Will scanned the abyss unconsciously. Behold, on that very battlefield, the man had become Achilles, and he could not, however earnestly wish, object that he didn't find it beautiful. Neither Crawford, Frederick, nor Bloom wasn't around. He was alone with Hannibal. They were alone in their shared darkness, and it was the most beautiful sensation in the world.

His inner tear gathered back into a completely new construct, and the gaps in Graham's torn psychic filled with the blood, thoughts, and breath of the Lecter's, whose chest was leaning against Will's bloody temple. Both with Hannibal completed each other in their ceremony. Will's moral ethos had just burned to ashes with the drawings of the Dragon, the ethics were broken, from now on only aesthetics had mattered. He had felt a self-hatred that killing would bring him any substitute for pleasure and hegemony once, but that night it was unconditionally beautiful, and he no longer yearned to feel anything other than a state of euphoria at the moment of cutting open someone's body. Tints in the rusty red blood, delight in the sight of Hannibal from a distance, being absorbed his intense excitement, listening to his broken breaths. Will wanted to share with him every fragment of his existence and delve with him beyond the earth limitations, but was it possible in the long run? Could he embrace the devil and count he wouldn't have shared the fate of the Chesapeake Ripper's victims? Making a bargain with Satan’s spawn always ended the same.

Whoever reached a similar sense of passion, such a cannonade of feelings, reached an infinite longing - no longer feared any powers on earth. He could even invite the dead to supper and drink with them goblets of pure gold and make a toast for the death, with satisfied and poised air of a Greek philosopher. Will no longer cared about the legal consequences of his actions; he looked softly at the hollow-cheeked, sallow man before him, who, with eyes filled with open, fiendish flame, was staring in admiration at the wound flowing down Will's cheek and his dry, bluish lips, coating with blood like crude warpaint.

Although they were both silent, the desperate sighs accompanied them. Intoxicated with each other, intense gazes and the delightful touch in which they both relished. What Will felt was a quiet sense of fraction, a moment slipping along the cross weave of shudders, power and fulfilment. And yet the sensation was the most durable he had ever felt: hunger for more blood, starvation even. He delighted in his metanoia; the final transformation as if he had become his the greatest self. From then on a whole new story could begin, perhaps the most exciting story of Will's life so far. He was crossing new, previously uncharted gates and throwing himself unmerciful into the abyss with the man to whom he had just given his soul. What was he supposed to do, then? Should he have killed Hannibal?

He saw two possibilities in his mind's eye; throwing himself and Hannibal from the bluff, falling together towards the azure sea, only the two of them, forever, until the last vague breath; the bitter waves could swallow them and prevent the world from the Judgment Day. It was a righteous thing to do, embedded in the historiosophical spirit of Christian theology.

But he immediately thought about the other scenario, in which he grasped Hannibal by the hand and led him into their home to have taken a seat in front of the mantelpiece and consume scarlet, warm wine together. Who traps the devil, let him hold him well; not soon a second time he'll catch prey so precious. There was a tragedy in the choice Will had to make. According to the voices of his moral sphere, he should have murdered the man as the only one who had a real chance to do so. Nonetheless, his emotional sphere yearned to be with Hannibal. He saw the dilemmas of his situation and bars of his plight, he understood him, wanted him.

He tightened his trembling grip on Hannibal's shoulder. Their anastomosis was pathological; it could bring nothing but the despair and misery of those who unhappily could encounter them. Will wanted to indulge in this bloody delight, no doubt, and he had never been so sure as he was then - barely alive, shedding a tear of emotion over his bloody face, staring Lecter into the eyes, as if trying to reveal to him all unspoken truths, declarations, and confessions. Slightly closer than friends, enemies bound together by an unbreakable pact, blinded by the same darkness of the moon.

Their drops of blood diffused, their breaths blended together, their souls melted as if they had become one. It was impossible to separate again. Will wouldn't survive another separation, and neither would Hannibal. When he took Will in his arms, stained his beautiful hands with blood, and the inception stuck in him years ago germinated, cultivated at a distance, it has grown ubiquitously, and the student has outgrown his master. Will wanted everyone around them to die, to die under the tender touch of their blades - he was athirst for conquering with Hannibal the world alone. Not share the man with anyone else, keep him close forever. But it was impossible. Lecter couldn't answer all of his damn questions. To stay on this rusty red soil would be to become the Final Judgement; together they could only wreak devastation, confusion and pain. Will felt as if a hand of ice had been laid upon his heart from fear. The troubling feeling that he wanted it all with all himself was truly scary. From then on, only divine intervention could bring them down - in accordance to Christian order on earth, the only reasonable action seemed to throw them both into the abyss.

He could have killed them both, Will thought soberly. Do the moral _good_ for the last time.

“Will,” Hannibal's hoarse, low timbre rang out, though Graham could swear it was the soft, cunning whisper of the devil himself speaking to his ear. “Suicide is the enemy, remember?”

He didn't allow himself to be consterned when Lecter appeared to penetrate his own thoughts.

"It is inevitable,” panted Will, his breath evening out into huffs of warm air that fanned against his companion's neck. “We have done that...”

“Consummatum est, dear Will”. A soft, loving whisper did convey into a particular hint of cynicism. “Now, it's the hardest test. Jack and I made a bargain for your soul, and although I had foreseen many scenarios, at the very end, I am bound to state you made me surprised. You've slipped out of my prime, therefore surprise me again. Who will win tonight? What do you intend to do? Tell me, Will, confess what do you crave.”

Egad, he was lost. There was no remedy from him, there was no escape. Tears welled into Will's eyes at the thought.

Unshed drops of clear salty solution secreted from glands in his wide, blue eyes as he looked at the grounds of the earth and saw in amazement as the coastal areas dried up. Lands were torn from the sea, and they both stood at the centre - contented and victorious, holding each other tightly in their warm arms, _principes per vitam mortem._

Will's heart clenched painfully as if Lecter had torn it from his chest. Nothing could cure their souls but the senses; thus, they did not fall off the bluff physically, but in their mind's eyes. They fell not into the sea, but into the River Styx, occupied by those who sinned with anger, jealousy, laziness and pessimism, plunged into a swamp, tearing each other apart. They condemned themself to hell, fell towards damnation with steady breaths and melting hearts. Will could see Hannibal's smile, sly and devilish. His senses made him believe Lecter was leading Will by the hand to the place guarded by a thousand of devils and three Furies. All of those who did not understand their beautiful bond were burning in the eternal tombs before their sights. Together forever; an eternity of torment awaited them, but together the pain couldn't be that terrible. Both of them could endure any pain beneath each other's gentle touch.

“Beautiful moment, do not pass away, _please_ ” whispered Will with an almost sorrowful cry as he unconsciously shared the fate of pitiable Faust, squeezing his eyes shut.

The hazel colour of Hannibal's eyes darkened by shadows as he smiled with mockery. Trembling exhalations between them, only inches from each other's faces, scarlet and starved lips skewed with blood.

“Hold on to me, then,” Hannibal mused, absorbed in thoughts, a slow timbre of his voice sending a shiver against Will's spine. “This is going to hurt, although you've lost a lot of blood. I might be able to be of assistance; thus let this moment be remembered by you. You will help me as well, we will help each other.” _Because you asked me to_. Hannibal paused for a moment, his tone a precarious balance between soft and harsh. The momentary sure of physical weakness got to him, chest throbbed painfully, long and a cold shudder went through his body. Only the realisation that the man he was carrying into the cabin was in much heavier condition made him sigh with consolation. “Do not drift off into unconsciousness, Will. It is not wise to expect death to be a kiss from God himself.”

Sides of Will's lips tipped up in a weak smile.

“God does not kiss?”

“Never. We are created in his image; nonetheless, our selfhoods are overshadowed by God's radiance. As we envision it to be.”

“A great paradox."

“The way of paradoxes is the way of truth”.

“I am curious which lasts longer,” Will groaned as he shuddered with pain. “Whether blind and pathetic mob created in God's image or the reddest flower of humanity like Alexander the Great, though called by people the Antichrist?”

Hannibal considered his words for a moment, lightly amused.

“Tell me, Will, who is this flower of humanity to you?”

The glare Will offered him was murderous as he scoffed for having to say it out loud.

“I'm afraid you are.”

Lecter chuckled.

“If I am to be the flower of humanity, I would have been dead from despair over the tragic death of my companion and friend, Hephaestion.” _My beloved,_ he thought, the words pressed into his mouth but never spoken.

Hephaestion was Alexander’s beloved.

“I suspect that,” Will snorted sarcastically, holding onto his wound. “you will have the opportunity to do so very soon.”

“Your loss is mine no less; therefore, my pain would have a much bigger price, Will.”

Graham did not answer; he might have begun to wonder about the allegorical meanings of the man's statements, but his physical condition made him numb and dazed. Suddenly his body was covered with convulsive spams, and there he made a low, desperate sob, a cold sweat splashed across his pale skin, shocks burning through his wounds as if it were pouring with flames.

“Hannibal...” Will paled, his eyes wide with pain as he swayed and fell into the hands of his friend. If Lecter hadn't caught him in time, he would have fallen to the ground and shared the fate of the Great Red Dragon.

“Pain is a sensory sought after. Makes us apt to remember,” said Hannibal calmly unbothered with Will's condition as his hand slid from the man's spine to rest against his wounded cheek, thumb softly caressing every place but the scar. “Close your eyes, Will, wade into the quiet of the stream. When you open it back, everything will be over. You have my word, you have my promise.” _And I always keep my promises._

Will obediently closed his eyes as he heaved a shuddering sigh, his breath fanning with warm against Hannibal's neck. Muscles released the tension, the weightlessness of unconsciousness made him pliant and hushed. Entrusting his own life into the hands of the piece of absolute evil certainly felt like a near-death experience, but he absorbed the heat of Hannibal's body with bliss, inhaled his pleasant scent, and soon, he felt as if his carnal-self had been pushed into the dark abyss.

It was part of the devil's plan to hurl him into the abyss, and thus different and more severe destructions awaited him.

*****

When Will opened his eyes, everything was truly over.

He woke up after four days in a hospital in Baltimore, and Molly Foster Graham was kneeling over his bed, so pale and petrified in her air as if she hadn't had slept for many hours. In the corner of the room, Jack Crawford was standing, tilting his head back against the wall, dressed in a black tweed suit, similarly lethargic on his appearance to Will's wife. At the sight of Will's waking up from a coma, Jack sprang to his feet, his face a sudden expression of the terror welling up from the depths of his heart. The man ran towards Will, sat on the edge of the mattress and made some vague, incomprehensible noises; statements Graham was unable to register. His head throbbed at a frantic pace, seized by disgust and fear; his chest was tearing him apart with pain, emptiness making him pliant as if a part of his soul had left the body.

And he frowned in terror. Blood draining from his bandaged face and shakily breaths as he realised. A sharp pang of pain struck through him like a knife and tears welled into his eyes.

Where was Hannibal?

“Will...? _Will?_ Will, can you hear us?”

“Will, my sweetheart?”

Graham was convinced that nothing could ever soothe such intense ache that haunted his soul. He stammered over himself, unable to string the words he craved to say. His mouth felt dry as he asked hoarsely,

“What happened to him?”

Didn't even look at his wife.

“We don't know if you remember anything,” Crawford said, rather coldly. “Do you remember anything, Will?”

Will's gaze blinked into the brightness of the room, confusion lacing his words. Beads of perspiration were spread on his forehead as he felt he was on the brink of a horrible danger he could not identify.

“I... don't know,” he cried petulantly.

“We waited for you to confirm something...” Jack hesitated. “We found you in one of Lecter's hideouts as we had tracked it through the stolen police car that took you there. And, well…”

Will was thunderstruck, pallid with rage. His hands were clenched, and the pupils of eyes were disks of fire. He felt caress touch on his trembling hand and in vague realisation, he recognised Molly's soft fingertips. He shuddered in spite of himself, a strange sense of fear and expectation creeping over him as he listened to Crawford's voice.

“What I am about to tell may startle you,” Crawford continued as he wiped his forehead. “Doctor Lecter committed suicide, Will. You both were tragically injured, and we barely saved you alone. Traces of his blood showed that he had thrown himself from the bluff. Nobody can survive something like this. Open, profound wounds and water supply bring death within moments.”

“You're safe now, Will. _We saved you._ ” Molly smiled warmly as she squeezed her husband's right hand. “Everything will be all right now. We will come back home, you will rest, I'll take care of you.”

Will didn't listen to her words; he closed his eyes back and sighed.

He was crying, although his eyelids remained dry and unshed. Hidden deep like a child's pathetic sobs did not shine at his eye, however, were burning his broken heart. There was no need to show it to the world; only God could have seen them through his mind's eye. Will never dreamed of being saved.

Was this what the Inferno was supposed to look like? It wasn't supposed to end this way; he was about to cross this hell with Hannibal, wielding his gentle hand, feeling his presence. No one else but the two of them, in despair and elation, to the very end. They had made a bargain, _why_ then...?

Why did it end like this?

_My God, why have you abandoned me?_


	2. Beware the contagion of madness

"What happened back there, Will?"

Was the sullen question, quick breath parted the petals of Crawford's lips, trembling in anticipation as he waited for an answer.

Although Molly was asked politely to leave the room, and she smiled nervously with hectic spots of red burning on her cheeks, the woman remained calm per her husband's polite and tender words. Will said something about their house in Florida, happiness, dogs and that _soon everything would be over_. She believed his monstrous falsehoods and swept up off the room, declaring her love and devotion to the end.

"FBI is going to investigate you, Will," continued Crawford politely with a strange tenderness in his voice. "I had to insist on having a conversation with you first, alone. You have the rights to remain silent, of course, and leave us the interpretation of evidence. However, you must know, we have found next to your unconscious body mutilated _remains_ of Francis Dolarhyde, and trust me, Will, these are not conducive circumstances. I want to help you, but you have to let me."

"It is a bald-faced lie, Jack." Will's dry lips twitched with a spasm of pain as he pouted sarky. "Pangs of conscience are developing in you, that's all. You crave compensation for the subsequent scratches on my covering to make yourself able to get some beauty sleep—all of this to a conviction that you have done nothing wrong as a righteous, generous man. I have known you all of the years, which is why I do not appreciate the idea of your trying to make me fooled. Don't lie to me."

"If I'm honest," the older man dwelled on. "there are not the scratches on your body that worries me. But scars on your psyche."

"My psyche seems to be fine."

"Forgive me if I will not believe you."

"Trust me, Jack," sighed Will, burying his face in his trembling hands. "Everything is fine. The Great Red Dragon is defeated. I can go home now."

"You nearly died, Will." Crawford insisted as he glanced at the shuddering man.

"Not the first time in my life and neither the last."

Crawford raised an eyebrow in a sort of confusion but preferred not to drill.

"For a moment we were almost sure Lecter had escaped." He decided to continue the previous thread, sighing heavily. "Technicians combed the area, though. Scraps of his bloodied shirt and hair were found in the sea. We suppose he... he drowned, Will. Our units from all provinces were dispatched to conduct a thorough search of the area fifty kilometres from their stationed sites; not a single print was found, _nothing_ ; no signs were found outside Lecter's house, except Lecter's bloody footprints, which he made while heading centrally towards the bluff; there the tracks are over, there is not a single one left around the property."

Will listened sullenly to him and made no answer.

"There are some limitations when it comes to the badly injured man. He's dead, Will. _We are free_. It sounds do surreal I can hardly believe it... Just as if divine intervention had saved us."

_You are freed from him_ , Will thought. _I will never be_.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"We will fall into a night of feverish sleep and try to drunk with our reality; an anodyne for our pain," smirked Graham with a passionate sting of disdain in his voice, wavering slightly.

"Can you confirm that Francis Dolarhyde shot Hannibal Lecter?"

"Yes, at the very beginning."

"What had you been doing with the Hannibal before the Dragon had come?"

"Not much. I told Hannibal... a few words."

"What kind of words, Will?"

Will wanted with all his heart not to cry.

"I told him I'd be watching Dolarhyde take his life; therefore, I drank wine afterwards and stared at the vision of Hannibal bleeding out on the ground."

To relieve the tension, perhaps, he did explode, but with a mocking laugh, not necessarily controlled and steady.

"And then?" Jack remained composed.

"Then Dolarhyde attacked me. I tried to defend myself, although his strength was overwhelming. Hannibal saved me. He attacked the Great Red Dragon and, uhm..." the man went silent, embarrassment a bright flush on his cheek.

"And?"

"I-I saved Hannibal. And I stabbed the Great Red Dragon and, uhm, killed him. We killed him. Together. In self-defence."

Crawford made a note of something in a leather notebook, sending the man a slightly suspicious, unconvinced glance after a moment.

"Francis Dolarhyde had a bit of a bite of his neck, cuts with an axe at the knees, many stabs of a sharp blade in the upper abdomen, including one wide, spread across the body. Not to mention the twisted joints. Am I really to believe it was merely a self-defence act in spite of all these facts?"

"Hannibal got carried away by passion."

_I got carried away by passion_ ; he wanted to add. _We both got_.

"What happened right after you two killed Francis Dolarhyde?"

Will went quiet immediately as his voice seemed to catch in his throat. Did he have to reveal himself to Crawford to such an alarming degree, share the intimacy he related with Hannibal? An intimidating shudder ran through him.

The thorns on the rim of his forehead became more visible; each of them tore his bitter heart with spikes, and the spectre of torment was reflected in a resentful gaze that could be interpreted either as an expression of passionlessness or truly indescribable sadness.

What could accurately express his mortal state of mind, which neither heavenly angels nor Hell's fiends could heal him anymore? The man couldn't reveal what had happened between them two - it was too beautiful, tender and sensual; the consumption of their bond, a declaration of eternal devotion that should have ended differently, with the heat of their bodies borne from blossoms of scarlet flame, the brush of their lips, faint blushes coming to cheeks, chasing each other with smiles, growing tenderness in their darkening eyes. Nobody could know, nobody would neither understand nor accept their _pact_.

"I cannot... remember much." replied Graham with bitterness in his voice. "I passed out quickly, while Hannibal was talking something to me; everything is a fog for me now. But when I remember something, I will let you know."

"I understand," sighed Crawford and looked at his watch. "well, I don't want to tire you out. I am due at the Quantico. Rest, Will, this Hell will be over soon. The worst is behind you."

Will smiled with no emotion; his face was a pure tabula rasa.

_The worst was yet to come_.

"By the way," Jack glanced round and rose to his feet, pausing in front of the door. "You have a visitor. It won't take long, I suppose."

Graham hesitated. Whomever, the guest, was, he felt this meeting would be no good.

******* **

A young woman, perhaps in her twenties, slim and short, with a very becoming blush on her face, entered the hospital room. Dressed in a dark grey wool jacket and matching skirt of the same fabric, she tucked her sandy brown hair behind an ear and looked with an apparent uncertainty at the patient.

Having glanced at his face, the whole wrapped in bandages, with her pale lips open and trembling, blue eyes shined with mild terror.

"Good morning, Mr Graham," the woman smiled firmly but kept a safe distance as she cleared her throat. "My name is Clarice Starling. I am training at the Academy. May I talk with you?"

Will appraised her with a reserved look.

"No," the man said listlessly. "Leave me alone, please."

His words had struck her like a tiny, precise dart, but she squared her jaw and did not give ground.

"I am afraid it is not possible."

"This is entirely possible; therefore, little Starling, fly back to school and leave me alone."

The woman smirked and came to a measured distance closer.

"Dr Bloom told me you are not very fond of people and I must be coarse, this is why forgive me if I'm not about to leave."

"You're a tough one, aren't you?"

"Reasonably so, yes."

"So whatever I'm going to say, you won't give me the desired peace, will you?"

Clarice laughed slightly, and the primal stress left her posture somewhat.

"Honestly, no."

"Mhm, I thought so." said Graham sarcastically, leaning his head drowsily against the pillow. "What could bring a trainee to me, then? Jack must be very busy indeed if he's recruiting help from the student body and continues investigating me by proxy."

She did not reply immediately to him but glanced around the room instead and stopped beside the window.

"Are you feeling up to a short walk, Mr Graham?"

Graham grew pale and almost gasped; raised an unpleasant eyebrow upward, scoffing at the insane offer.

"I was stabbed in the upper abdomen, and I'm lying in a hospital bed in front of you, miss, in the process of painful recovery."

Clarice was beaming from ear to ear with a faint smile as if not entirely out of sync with the man's severeness.

"Yes, you were stabbed five days ago, Mr Graham. Hence, I'm kindly asking if you would feel able to walk outside the hospital." said the woman, revealing the curtains in the hall and allowing the rays of sunlight to fall on Graham's air. He twitched with a spasm of discomfort and looked back from the light, repulsion thick on his face. "I insist. And if you feel weak, I always serve with my arm."

Will snorted sarcastically, considering her manners unbelievably rude. On the one hand, he could call them social, but in his opinion, it was a merely extreme impertinence.

"If you come to the point as soon as possible, I will answer all your doubts and questions. Within reason, of course. A little quid pro quo, miss?"

"I will come to the point as soon as possible when you walk out with me. The weather is stunning today." Starling smiled. "This is the appropriate quid pro quo, Mr Graham."

He looked at her incredulously and sighed with resignation.

"The case of Dr Lecter is considered as an enigma in our circles," told Will the woman as she and Graham went out, stepped down from the marble stairs leading to the hospital and narrowed her eyes a little under the beautiful spring sun. The weather was indeed charming, almost Italian, the sky was clear, sapphire-white, the flowers were blooming, and it was impossible to resist the urge to compare a place to paradise. "I didn't have to find much in the files, or the press itself, for your relationship with doctor Lecter to catch my attention. Admittedly, many psychiatric and penitentiary assemblies sacrifice meeting after meeting to break down this phenomenon into its first parts."

Will sighed softly, not answering miss Starling in any way.

"You have received a rare gift that no one else has been rewarded with; you had the opportunity to explore Lecter's mind," the intern continued, determined to satisfy her professional curiosity. "And I think tabloids like TattleCrime are pointless as a source of information; better to have a conversation. Agent Crawford let me talk to you, but you have to know he didn't suggest anything. I'm mainly here on my initiative."

Graham snorted sarcastically.

"Of course; Jack never orders anything. Only allows you to delve into the murderer's mind on your own, and then, he is just surprised when you shatter into small pieces."

Clarice smiled as she meticulously traced Graham's impassive face with hers.

"I am curious, whether are you warning me now against delving into your mind, Mr Graham, or are you recalling a time when it was you who delved into Dr Lecter's mind?"

"You know surprisingly much, Miss Starling."

"The past is exposed cards; there is no point in dwelling on what is yet to come when it is enough to turn your head and look at the accuracy of history. Almost every pattern repeats itself sooner or later."

"The past is a phenomenal construct," muttered Graham, more to himself than to the woman. "I live in the past, I yearn for it, and my mind does not comprehend the concept of the present."

"And nothing more can ever console you?"

"Nothing," said Will with neither sense of passion nor joy.

"How is it, so you have never known happiness in your life?"

"I have known it, yes," he replied passively as if he didn't care. "I've had extremely long periods of happiness in my life, but it will never come back."

Starling hesitated as she stared attentively at his dim, unconscious eyes, utterly dead and in no way betraying even a flush of enjoyment of life.

"Mr Graham, I'll be honest with you," said Starling at one point, moving a little closer to the man so that she spoke to him in a whisper. "I believe Dr Lecter did not kill himself."

Will analysed the woman's words for a moment and moved his head a safe distance, appraising her porcelain face with both precision and a slowly revealing expression of mocking amusement.

"Yeah, _trainee_. Understandable."

"Please, do listen to me first," sighed Clarice, persistently sticking to hers.

"Oh, I insist," cried Will, petulantly. "Do thrill me with your wisdom."

"Dr Lecter was a hedonistic man; pleasuring himself in evil, debauchery and scandal. Although death could be the comforting prospect, it was not as alluring as life itself. The neuronal shaping of each psyche is always the result of a unique and subjective history, and I believe the monster like Hannibal Lecter could make a lot of generous concessions to this world but never be willing to take his own life. All his actions were prudent and wise; someone so diabolically clever would never allow himself to end the entertainment other people had been giving him."

Starling, in her phases, had a point, and it shouldn't have made him furious. Nevertheless, Graham felt a cold blade slipping through his heart at the word entertainment. He was just a fallen angel banished from paradise, from Hannibal's all-good graces, when he ceased to be exciting and even turned into a construct more influential than him. Should not have been surprising and disappointing, but it _did_.

"You got him out of the hospital. You gave him freedom, Mr Graham," Clarice continued; her voice was shrill and utterly discordant. "perhaps his intention was not to stay with you at all but to seize the opportunity to fight for his _la vita nuova_."

"Hannibal killed himself," drawled Will.

"Are you saying this for the peace and tranquillity of your soul, or did you just bury yourself in the bitter realisation that Dr Lecter might have left you bleeding to death and escape alone?" asked the woman politely.

Graham shivered as Clarice plucked at his heartstrings.

"I am correct, aren't I?", she added with a smile, proud of her tense beat.

"Did you, uhm—did you share your assumptions with Jack Crawford?"

"Of course, I did not; I cannot rely on mere assumptions."

"Indeed, you should not," his voice began to stifle, and there was only a more blunt tinge to his face. "What do you need, then, miss Starling?"

"First of all, I would like to learn a lot from you," said the woman honestly. "If my hypothesis fails, so what? I'll get experience. But, when my theory turns out to be correct, and Dr Lecter indeed remains free, we may save many lives. And you, Mr Graham, will have the opportunity to see him again."

What a nonsense was running out of her scarlet lips; Will was scornful about it and didn't answer for a moment.

He stared lethargically at the broad sky. Although that day was a bright one, and there was not a single cloud in the firmament, the air was fresh and pleasant; it choked him unbelievably. It smelled by the irritating smell of exhaust fumes; he felt the powerlessness of his chest burst. He wanted to run away, to break free, although he had no idea where he could escape with scars on his stomach and right cheek, tearing his body apart in pain.

He had seen Hannibal only a few days ago; his bloody face with such a soft gaze chased Will right through, with trembling hands he held him so firmly against him as they would never part again. Egad, why did Lecter abandon him; was Will not divine enough for his perfection? Not sufficient? Was he too down-to-earth, tedious and uninteresting as the mob, belonging in the hellish depths of the earth; while Hannibal was pure divinity itself? Inaccessible among all humankind, like a shadow of a rose in the mirror, an exquisite instrument responsive to touches and thrills. Was he watching him now over him from above with mocking amusement?

"I shall never be able to measure up to your perfection," the man wrung his hands in despair as he drawled contemptuously.

_You son of a bitch_ , he pressed against his dry petals of lips.

"I'm sorry?" asked Clarice, instantly bewildered.

"Wasn't talking to you."

The woman looked around uncertainly.

"Ah, I see..."

Will looked at the brunette cautiously.

"I dare to doubt."

"Mr Graham, I have no intention of bothering you. I am only asking you to reconsider my words," said the woman, touching his arm gently. A quick pause, as she hesitated whether she should have provoked him or not. "Or maybe you're afraid to."

Will made a mockery of her words by twitching petals of his lips in a sardonic grin, as his muscles tightened and arrogant glint flashed in his eye. He remained quiet for a moment, staring somewhere sternly ahead, as he considered her boldness.

"Do you see that church in front of us, miss Starling?" the man asked, elevating his crescent-shaped eyebrows.

Starling turned around to follow Graham's gaze and frowned as she saw from a distance a massive cathedral. It was built in a neo-Gothic style with marble columns and gilded capitals, arcades at the roof and pale colour of alabaster everywhere, symbolising ethics and dignity.

"It is the Church of Mary the Rosary," miss Starling recognised the building and glanced at the man in anticipation. "It is, in its way, a very charming church."

Graham nodded politely and said with a strange touch of pathos in his voice,

"Do you know what I crave when I look at this church?"

Clarice cleared her throat anxiously.

"Please, enlighten me."

"I wish it collapsed," said the man with an innocent purr.

A rose shook in her blood and shadowed her cheeks with confusion as the man gave her a wry smile and dared to continue.

"I want windows to shatter on the floor, marble collapsed on the devoted, humbly praying believers. From such an exquisite work of architecture, there would be nothing left, nothing at all; except a cloud of dust and a human remains elevated to sacrifice for Him."

"For God, you mean?" asked Clarice.

Will did not answer directly; a fit of sorrow choked him, and he wished he could crouch on the ground with tears which were rising to his eyes.

"God loves to do this with all of us; taking us into his arms, arousing desire, making us trembling and obedient to love Him, and then painfully He knocks us to the ground, does He not?"

Clarice stared at the man in amazement. Perhaps somewhere in her subconscious, the shocking thought arose in her that Graham was not talking about the God, but _a god_.

_His god._

******* **

"How do you feel about the death of your Salvatore, dear Will?"

Bedelia du Maurier mocked with a cold, sneering smile, letting Graham slip into her apartment a week later when he had left the hospital.

There was a dim of reluctance in her eyes and silent anticipation as she held in her trembling hand a crystal glass half-filled with an alcoholic beverage the colour of dark honey. Will did not take off his grey coat but only wrapped himself in it tightly and paused in the living room, having appraised the woman's evening gown with a dispassionate look; a long, navy blue dress over her shoulders, with a v-neckline and sequins around it.

"You are celebrating, I suppose," declared Graham with theatrical approval.

Her lips that were like petals of a scarlet rose, contorted in a peevish chuckle. Something seemed to throb in Will's veins at the view; _she was proud._ Content, even.

"It was not my Salvatore," said Bedelia with such a delicious irony.

"Nor he was mine."

"Fascinating theory, Will" the woman lifted her brows in wistfulness. "as untrue and ridiculous as the presence of God in this world himself."

"God is dead, Bedelia" smirked Graham wry, a quiet sense of despair. He kept his face natural as he huffed out a humourless laugh.

"And we murdered him," Bedelia took a sip of the drink. "how shall we comfort ourselves now, murderers of murderers?

Will kept his expression meticulously blank, as he said,

"There is still time; a time of wandering after the Inferno, before weakened and dying, I will cut my plight."

"Are you going to share his fate?" Asked the woman, smiling contemptuously. "Complement yourself with him in the act of suicide, convinced that you would join him and he will consider you as an equal?"

"He will never consider anyone as an equal," drawled the man with a wave of anger. "We were merely his pets."

Bedelia's begun to wonder at his words and asked softly, with such a strange sense of mock tenderness, putting a split right in his heart,

"How are your scars, Will? The wounds must have pained you tremendously, considering you were left alone on the cold ground, just to bleed to death."

Graham scoffed at her words but made no answer. With a twitch of pain, he bit his underlip, a tactile stimulation both enthralling and comforting yet bringing severe soreness. A taste of iron and bitterness, delicious blood as the red wine itself, he swirled his tongue over petals of his lips, sensation luscious and delightful as if a chaste, quick kiss had been laid upon him. Will sighed with abandon, a flush of pleasure stealing into his scarred cheek as he trembled in his voice,

"Hannibal yearned for leaving other marks on me," he touched with a shuddering hand his upper abdomen. "making another of scars I can only associate with him. That was his purpose; they had to be as visible and profound as possible."

"He did find the truest _confessore_ ," the blonde drank again, repulsion thick on her sallow face at the conviction that talking with the man while sober was pointless. She walked around Will, her unconscious gaze fixed on him, bordering between disdain and keen interest. "He may have died indeed, but in your mind, he shall be present until the last breath of yours. Hannibal had a mission in his life, which was fulfilled when you reconciled with him in his greatest fantasy. _The part of the power which eternally willed evil, worked good in the end_ ; he retreated into the shadows, knocked himself off the human ground, overshadowed by the radiance of your creation so that you would continue his work as your own." paused the woman in sudden concern, her cheeks suddenly turning pale, lips trembling. "Do you intend to continue his work, Will?"

Before he could reply, she took a subtle step back, awareness strong in her mind at the trepidation.

Will noticed it with a dim of amusement, rosy petals of lips shivering into a small, vile smile as he answered,

"There is no other tree waiting for me."

"This is untrue," said the woman carefully, trying to read his blurry intentions. "You are supposed to find your tree on the side of your wife and foster son. Provide them care and safety; this is what you ought to do."

Graham took a territorial step toward the woman without breaking their persistent eye contact, his footsteps light as ever, not making a sound.

"You mean, I should keep repairing boat engines, talk _des lieux communs_ , be silent and hear nothing but a cacophony of my mind?" asked the man mockingly, his voice only a touch more profound than before. "Is this what I'm supposed to do, Bedelia?"

She took another step away, her breath loud and trembling.

"My God, you're just like him," whispered Bedelia in a wave of terror, a soft sense of tears under her eyelids. "Thus, as a result of your mutually shared folly, you've become even more vicious, you reckless and wretched youngster, who has outgrown his master and suddenly feels a flush of confidence!"

With dread in her swarthy air, the woman seemed to look astonishing, as if she were a gliding angel through the heavenly sky, and Will was speechless under the influence of similar thoughts. He saw her vulnerable and fragile, and nothing was more appealing as the thought of having his hand clenched around her neck, listening with delight to the breaking bone.

Will smiled as a strange sequence of similar emotions absorbed his mind.

" _Sin is a thing that writes itself across a man's face. If a wretched man has a vice, it shows itself in the lines of his mouth, the drop of his eyelids, the moulding of his hands even_ ," the woman quoted in horror, backing away. "I do see a raging hell in the front of me, not a man."

Will smiled coldly, and took another step, shoving the woman against the wall, emphasised her inability to escape, outlined his hegemony by holding her firmly in place.

"Mind to save your words, Bedelia," said the man softly, mouth dangerously close to her ear, an intimidating whisper. "More delight in the flavour of the meat, when the animal is slaughtered in a stress-free manner."

The blonde became speechless in a daze.

"Oh, you obtuse fool. Degraded, fallen, sinful!" Sensual lips of hers twisted with disdain, tears welling down her cheeks. "Do not go through this gate! There is still a chance for you, therefore choose wisely with your morality and not—"

" _Morality is simply the attitude we adopt towards people whom we personally dislike_."

"Do not lose your mind for someone who would never give you his own."

"He has set us up around the world, ready to follow him into the fire," admitted Will without much agitation. "Pathetic, little pets indeed."

"And you can see for yourself what the result is."

"Abigail. Chiyoh. Me. You."

"Consumed by the beast."

"You made a career out of his decay, Bedelia. This present despair of yours shouldn't take place at all, and neither desires for my mercy. You've played with fire and got carried away. Contrapasso; you toyed, now you shall pay the price."

The blonde laughed helplessly, and another tear ran down her bluish cheek.

"I found a way to profit from his decay; this is correct. Nevertheless, I was his victim."

Will snorted a sarcastic laugh and, shaking his head in disbelief, said coldly,

"You were so willing to commit your heart to him, and now you think, that you're able to make softened me up with these learned, pitiful phases. Spare me."

"I was afraid to be eaten."

"Poor Dr du Maurier, afraid of being devoured. And that's why she hid in the arms of the one who wanted to consume her whole," mocked Will with a sudden laugh, stateliness and swells beaming from his oily, tremulous smile.

"The way you've idealised him cries vengeance to heaven," whispered the woman wryly, the view of ache and contempt on her pale face. "As if you were unaware of his persuasive charm, being able to strip you from own identity! Let him crawl once inside your veins, and he will stay there forever. Out of nowhere, he appears, bringing you salvation from sorrow, but he plunges you in the dark, makes you bathe in sin and immorality. That is the pact that cannot be broken since none can achieve fullness through the abyss of suffering; the only use we can have from our self is to annihilate it," she paused for a moment, shuddering in disgust, showing no sign of joy when her eyes rested on him again. "No matter where I go and what I do, I have the impression he is there with me, observing me from the back of my skull. You know perfectly well what I'm referring to, don't you?"

Suddenly, Will's dry lips were trembling at her words, so truthful and similar to his state of mind. He grew pale, realisation dawning on his soul, as such a strange amount of compassion gathered in his voice,

"I do, actually."

"See? And at some point, you stop being yourself indeed. You wake up at the table finding out that you are fed oysters, acorns, and wine, just as the Romans nourished their animals to enhance their flavour in preparing them for slaughter." Bedelia paused for a moment, a fit of passionate sobbing choked her, and she closed her eyes. Aching for a false hope when she had opened them, a sudden, utterly different picture would show beside her eyes. Heaven from Dante's phases, maybe.

However, it did not happen. She looked again at Will, who in absolute silence had not flickered an eyelid since she began her speech. She lifted her chapped lips again, as she anticipated the man's attempts to save Lecter's good name and asked with a hoarse whisper,

"Why would someone who is about to cease tried to sell you lies? It is no concern of mine; you can have a meal of me. My only intention is to beware you from attending to the contagion of madness itself because this is where you are making your way." The woman went silent for a moment, resting her mouth from desperate sobs, trying to prevail over faltering, lean voice of hers. "You cannot begin to imagine how many he did kill similar to you. Do not... do that to yourself; he is dead now, you can go home again. Find a tree in no slavery."

Graham leaned forward, his fingers gently caressing the side of Bedelia's sallow, porcelain face, wiping her widened eyes from crystal tears. An unpleasant shiver ran through the woman's spine, which cut too much discomfort into her heart.

"What will happen to you, have had to happen," was said as he cleared his throat. "It's inevitable."

"Set up by Hannibal's will, not a fate," contemned Bedelia with a hiss, turning her cheek haughtily away from his sordid, humiliating touch.

"Between the fate and his will, the difference is none," the man sighed softly and, as if intoxicated by their closeness, touched gently through the column of her bared throat.

"Is it going to hurt?" asked the woman softly, having given up any possibility of remaining alive.

"It's not, I promise. And I always keep my promises," was said in response, harsh and determined voice, elusive air of the death itself as invisible tears were pressed down his eyelids, cold, balanced and almost absent. No sign of joy was glowing in them.

Bedelia closed her eyes voluntarily as she felt Graham's hands tightening around the delicate neck, slowly strangling her.

_I will precisely inhibit the supply of oxygen to the tissues, impede blood circulation, and the body will first experience tachycardia_.

Suddenly the man's heart began to beat faster; while we were absorbing the life flowing out of the woman, he relished the presence of his mind, drank the cup of rapture and madness with his breast, tasted sensitively in the divine sensation of consciously taking someone's breath away.

_There will be tonic-clonic convulsions._

"Give over to it; it will be over soon," he whispered tenderly, feeling a great deal of empathy towards his victim. "you are free now, you can rest, your purgatory is over."

"Maybe mine is over," gasped Bedelia unconsciously, her smooth body trembling in ache. "but what about yours...?"

_The respiratory movement will cease; the heart rate will increase again due to the paralysis of the vagus nerve centre. You will try to take short breaths, but to no avail; you will fall into my arms, still warm._

One last, lonely tear ran down her swarthy cheek.

_This is none of my designs._

_But this is my Becoming._

Will had been glancing at the woman's bluish, lifeless visage for a dull moment as an unpleasant sensation consumed his mind, that his shuddering body was going to collapse. Some hidden nerve shook the scarlet of his lips and left them trembling and wet from blood, making his air of martyr wonderfully evoking compassion. He felt his skull had been crumbled, and many amounts of scarlet blood were sunk into his brain, balancing his well-being on the verge of insanity. It almost seemed to him that the sharp blades plunged deep into his trembling heart, and he grinned involuntarily at the thought that the muscle might have burst in despair. To die due the heartbreak was indeed a beautiful and symbolic death, as sudden as a lightning strike and painful enough to achieve the sensation of euphoria.

Graham arranged the body in a profoundly symbolic way; he spread her alabaster arms on both sides of the cold ground, symmetrically incised the top of their skin, as if he had turned limbs into bloodstained wings. He no longer looked down at a human body that had breathed the spirit, but at a fowl - a beautiful construction of an animal radiating with an endless desire.

The bird died only because it demanded without measure, without limit, demanded, wanted, desired the heaven to which it looked, towards which it was directed. On the one hand, this bird was an archangel that trodden the serpent and ascended to heaven, and the earth pillar that supported this image consisted of a beast, just as the Apocalypse said. The fowl was a heartbroken and holy, dying, screaming its despair into the sky and unable to cease at the end because his love for someone was immortal; it could not reach the target because its claws were weighed down by tangles. It was spreading these wings, stretching towards the heavens - a lament of a miserable man in worship, asking God for a substitute for interest, not leaving him alone in Hell.

Will was trembling in doleful despair as he watched his creation from a distance. He could see Hannibal still in front of his eyes; it seemed almost that he could touch him with his fingertips, feel his presence, flung his shuddering arm around Hannibal's neck and sense the man's soft fingers stayed through his dark curls. Graham wished he could bury his tear-stained face in a hollow between the cartilage of the larynx and neck muscle of his, nevertheless, he was unable, and the involuntary moans burst from his chest as the visage of Hannibal's presence disappeared again.

Will closed his eyes, and he felt such weakness that he fell to his knees.

"Which way shall I fly infinite wrath, and infinite despair?" the man whispered silently, hiding his face in trembling hands. "Which way I fly is Hell; myself am Hell; and in the lowest deep a lower deep, still threat' ning to devour me opens wide, to which the Hell I suffer seems a Heaven."

_Why did you leave me alone?_ , he left unspoken.

And could not get up anymore, sinking pleasantly into the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

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